She called my name and I arose, zombie like and followed her to the last little room, way back in the corner. Everything was blue and grey. The weird kind of blue of a dirty pool or surgical scrubs. I sat upright in the same aforementioned color of blue vinyl chaise longue of death. Fox news was on the TV, perched high up in the corner so I had to strain my neck to "relax" watching it.
"Okay, I'm going to make a mold of your teeth, so please don't bite my fingers while they're in your mouth," she says dryly.
Was she fucking kidding me or what? I may not like where I am, but I am VERY aware of where I am and why I am there. Are people so shocked that they seize down like a Pitbull on those innocent fingers? I stare out the window and watch the rain drip off the pine needles, framing the scene like a gorgeous Japanese woodcut. I try to unclench my fingers from the arms of the chaise.
"Great," she says removing the hardened blob of pink elastic goo from my mouth, "They should be with you shortly," and smiles leaving me to my own thoughts. I can't believe I have to actually pay money for this.
I sit and countdown the minutes until he arrives and cordially begins oral plesantries only to offer me some gas before he pulls out his giant size needle that he uses part time to euthanize wild sea whales.
"We're going to numb it a little first and then you'll feel a little pressure," he says "And remember, if you need a break, just raise your hand. You're doing great."
Yeah, right. That "pressure" he refers to is such a sharp piercing feeling, so wildly devious in it's delivery. Shooting pain that begins to melt half of your face off the bone. They begin.
The high pitched whine of the drill rotating at warp speed makes me nervous, but I force myself to breathe, and take my gnarled nubby bloodly claws from the chair arms and place my fists open in my lap. I exhale through my nose deeply as if I were a Master Yogi. He stops and asks if I'm alright. Aaa, Aaa. I could really use some drugs right about now. Yes, everything has it's place.
Two crowns later I am still wondering where the frick my tiara is. I deserve one after that. But I can't speak very well because my face is made of Silly Putty. They advise me to be very careful eating afterwards. Eat? Yeah, I think I'll run right out and get an Everlasting Gobstopper to chaw on. Or maybe some Laffy Taffy.
"That looks great and you did a really good job," he says leaving, telling me to have a nice holiday. I smile and think fondly of him in my hazey numbness. It is finished. I like my dentist. He's kind of sexy for an older man.
Leaving the parking lot, I wonder why I couldn't have a dad like him. At least the pain he inflicts has purpose and comes with positive reinforcement.
dentist, anxiety, torture, crown